


Frostbite

by cdra



Series: Kinktober 2019 [3]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Cock Rings, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Face-Fucking, Ice Play, Implied/Referenced Polyamory, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Masochistic Siegfried Propaganda, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 12:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdra/pseuds/cdra
Summary: Siegfried doesn't usually respond all that much, when it comes to being touched. Aglovale discovers an exception to the "usual".[Kinktober Day 3 - Temperature Play, Sensory Deprivation, Knifeplay, Edgeplay]





	Frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> Today's kinks were Temperature Play | Sensory Deprivation | Knifeplay | Edgeplay. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with this as soon as I read that list, because I have big brain headcanons about Siegfried being a huge masochist.
> 
> The SIEGFRIED event went and gave this ship rights and I'm completely okay with that. Siegfried obtusely references being poly with the dragon knights at some point I think.

When it comes to touch, Siegfried is not a sensitive man. His skin has been thick as long as he can remember; sure, he feels pain, but he’s always tolerated it a little too well, even before he lost some part of his humanity, and when it comes to pleasant things? Gentle touches, soft textures? Perhaps those things simply weren’t meant for him.

So it makes sense, in a near-ironic sort of way, that  _ this  _ is the sort of thing that wakes Siegfried’s senses up and leaves him breathless.

The dark strip of cloth around his eyes keeps Siegfried from knowing where ice-cold touches will fall next; Aglovale is not particularly kind about it, either, taking his time (as if he has to prepare, when ice is as natural under his skin as a blade is in Siegfried’s hands) before grazing a line of frost along Siegfried’s ribs. He shudders for it, sucks in a shaky breath—a small reaction, but coming from  _ Siegfried _ , indomitable and incomprehensible Siegfried, it’s enough that Aglovale can’t help but chuckle.

“So, even  _ you  _ have your weaknesses,” he intones in the same untouchable tone as ever; Siegfried doesn’t balk, doesn’t retort, merely breathes steadily as he sits still upon his chair. He’s not bound, yet he doesn’t try to escape even as Aglovale circles around to his back (he can sense that much, a general gist of where Aglovale might be) and presses a chilling fingertip to the nape of his neck. The ice-cold feeling spreads, lighting up insensitive nerves along his spine, and Siegfried all but cries out at the sheer sensation.

An amused hum rolls from Aglovale’s throat, unhurried; his fingertip follows the column of Siegfried’s spine, tracing over ridges of bone as the cold spreads. Where the chill fades, a tingling numbness remains, a feeling so  _ different  _ from anything Siegfried is used to that it calls his attention aggressively, especially when he can’t see to direct his attention elsewhere. It all feels strange—but that doesn’t make it unpleasant.

Aglovale tips the knight’s chin upward; even when he isn’t doing it intentionally, his hands are still cold against Siegfried’s skin. “If someone had told me you could shudder like that years ago… I doubt I would’ve believed such a thing.” Despite the aloofness, there’s a shred of fascination in Aglovale’s tone—an honest curiosity, an interest, that he’s not keen to share openly, but considering it’s the same as with Percival, Siegfried understands it.

“I wouldn’t have either,” is the answer he gives, softly, as Aglovale’s fingertips graze his jaw and settle non-threateningly at his throat.

A puff of cold air against his ear makes Siegfried’s breath catch in his throat. “Do not misunderstand: I am not complaining.” Of course he’s not; though he thinks as much, Siegfried only answers in a shaky sigh as Aglovale’s frost brushes the veins in his neck. “But I do find myself… tempted.”

That, however, earns a soft laugh. “You’re just like your brother,” Siegfried claims calmly, knowingly; “Keeping up such an unfamiliar front… it’s not necessary, you know.”

The statement agitates Aglovale just right; he digs his nails into Siegfried’s chest, a flash of ice blossoming there before he steps away. Beyond where Siegfried can see, his eyes narrow and his jaw tenses, but malice isn’t precisely the emotion that beats within the Lord of Frost’s chest. “For such a tame beast, you’re awfully untrained, at times.” Steady, clicking footfalls; one, two, three, a pause, and then come another three. “Perhaps it falls to me to do something about that.”

There’s the acrid scent of magic, and then there’s a frigid blade at Siegfried’s bare middle; he all but flinches at it, though not out of fear. It’s cold enough to burn, sharp enough to leave a needle-thin trail of blood behind as it draws a lazy line from his belly button to the bottom of his ribcage, but the sting is so delicate that it doesn’t register at all like  _ pain  _ does in Siegfried’s mind. It’s something completely else, instead, a mixed-up and heady feeling that threatens to make Siegfried’s thoughts go white.

Aglovale laughs once, his tone dark and heavy with something akin to arousal. “That works for you, as well? How fascinating… I’m beginning to think you might just be a proper masochist.”

He’s probably right, but Siegfried only tenses his palms against the seat of the chair and tries to level his breathing. His eyes are closed beneath the blindfold by instinct alone. Aglovale draws the tip of the blade down, across his hip, not pressing hard enough to cut this time—not that that makes Siegfried’s muscles twitch beneath it any less. If anything, the pinpoint nature of it only pulls his focus tighter, leaves his head fuzzier than before and sends his blood rushing to his lower half.

The sound of Aglovale’s breathing, intensifying steadily, is the only hint Siegfried gets that this is having an effect on the both of them. The chill of the blade leaves him only to return at his collarbone—as it draws up to his neck, the pressure increases and the sting of flesh breaking returns; Siegfried pants softly and tilts his head back pliantly.

“So docile, even for a man who is not your liege,” Aglovale nearly whispers, and Siegfried can feel his breath on his face. “I could easily take your life, yet you aren’t afraid in the slightest.”

It’s strange. Aglovale has a blade at his throat, but he doesn’t feel on edge at all—both of them know that he wouldn’t kill Siegfried after everything that’s happened, no matter how cold he may act.

“Then again, I doubt you know the meaning of fear,” Aglovale muses; the sting of metal removes itself from just below the bump of Siegfried’s throat. “You’re truly a unique breed, Siegfried.” From the way the knight’s chest rises and falls with each breath, and how his lips remain parted but don’t bother to form words, Aglovale suspects his words were hardly heard.

Fingers tangle into long, brown hair, and Siegfried gasps softly as he’s jerked backwards to expose his neck even more. He shivers now, back arched, as Aglovale appraises his bare torso so intently that Siegfried can nearly feel it—and, the faint drip of blood from already-closing cuts, the lingering numbness of ice still penetrating warm skin, he feels these things more strongly under Aglovale’s unseen stare. The Lord of Frost bares down, his knee settling between Siegfried’s legs and making his breath catch in his throat; he’s getting hard from this, but Aglovale had already figured that out.

“A piece of work, really,” but the words don’t sound hateful, even now—Aglovale truly becomes glacial, when he’s spiteful, but there’s a heat to his tone that melts through his permafrost. “How many more fascinating sides will you display for me, Siegfried?” There’s something about the way he says Siegfried’s name—it’s an anchor, a reminder that he’s here yet.

“Open your mouth.” Aglovale’s grip on cinnamon-colored hair tightens. “Show me what that subservient tongue can do.” He pulls Siegfried toward him and makes his point clear; cold as Aglovale’s touch is, the faint heat of his cock near Siegfried’s lips is surprisingly normal.

Siegfried runs his tongue across his lower lip and does as he’s told; his first licks are clumsy as he maps out the shape of Aglovale’s length blindly, but he finds his way around it soon enough. He accommodates the blond’s cock with the sort of cavalier ease that Siegfried seems to manage with  _ everything _ —hollows his cheeks, flattens his tongue, circles it around the head of Aglovale’s cock like he’s done this a thousand times before. (Well, he has done it a few times, so perhaps there’s that—another element of his storied and inscrutable past and present.)

The sound on Aglovale’s lips is a pleased one, but his grip remains taut on Siegfried’s hair; his other hand circles around the back of Siegfried’s neck, only to flicker with icy magic where his fingertips brush against the knight’s nape. Siegfried groans around him from the suddenness of it—Aglovale takes his shock as an opportunity to tug him closer, forcing him to take Aglovale’s shaft deeper into the back of his throat. Somehow, Siegfried doesn’t so much as gag, though he does make a choked-off sound that’s far louder than Aglovale has heard before now.

“Hah… so your skills extend as far as sucking cock, even? Were that I more surprised…” Nails dig against Siegfried’s scalp, icy fingertips slide down his shoulder along with the smooth handle of the knife still in the other man’s palm; unconsciously, he reaches up to grip at Aglovale’s hips, but the blond catches his wrist with a grip cold enough to burn.

“I didn’t say you could touch me,” he intones coolly, and Siegfried’s shoulders quiver as he gives a muffled, throaty sound of understanding. Aglovale lets go of his hair for only a moment—there’s a clinking of metal, implements being shifted around, and then Siegfried’s hands are clasped together by iron cuffs. It’s a statement of its own; as Aglovale grabs his hair once more, Siegfried’s nails tense into his palms.

For a moment, things go quiet in the room aside the wet sounds and muffled breaths between them. Aglovale holds Siegfried in place with a brusque, domineering grip—sometimes, he pulls Siegfried even closer, until his cock presses against the back of his throat and it’s a wonder Siegfried doesn’t choke or gag from it. His only mercy, however small, is in how he keeps his knee pressed close enough to Siegfried’s crotch that he can absently rock his hips to get a hint of the sweet friction that he’d frankly  _ expect  _ Aglovale to deny him.

As his jaw grows tired he slacks in his attentions only slightly, but it doesn’t pass by Aglovale’s notice; the metallic chill at the nape of his neck serves as a sharp reminder of just how closely Aglovale is observing him. With a huff, Aglovale shifts; he pulls Siegfried off of his dick, leaving the knight to cough as he’s still held by the hair a moment longer.

He shoves his knee harder against Siegfried’s still-covered cock, if only to make a point of it. “Aren’t you enjoying this too much?” A flippant, amused statement; he finally releases his hold on Siegfried’s hair, but it comes with Aglovale stepping back just far enough that Siegfried misses the contact.

“Not at all,” he has it in him to say, perhaps because Aglovale just makes himself far too easy to sass even when Siegfried’s lips are shining with spit and his throat’s a little raw. “I can take more.”

It’s the kind of challenge Aglovale can’t help but rise to meet with a low “oh?” and icy fingers gripping Siegfrieds chin in a way that makes his head spin. “And here I thought you might’ve lost your voice. How silly of me.” Aglovale releases him and he can sense movement, the twirl of the blade as Aglovale takes his time to plan before acting.

“Touch yourself,” is the command he gives, low and even and absolute; it’s an easy one to follow, too, and Siegfried does so while trying not to seem  _ too  _ eager. The feeling of calloused palms against his strained cock is a blessing, and Siegfried sighs in light relief as he strokes himself steadily, if a bit clumsily for his bindings. Aglovale is watching, as he has been this entire time—it makes him cautious not to indulge too intently, taking his pleasure in slow motions and soft, foggy breaths.

There’s a soft “hmph” of acknowledgement before Algovale moves, stepping away only briefly—giving Siegfried a moment’s reprieve, just enough to catch his breath. He returns only to tug at Siegfried’s cuffs, pulling his hands away from his twitching, flushed erection—as Siegfried chokes back some kind of whine, he thinks he can sense Aglovale’s amusement.

“When it’s convenient for you, you listen well enough… but, I can’t allow you to become spoiled.” He says as much, but now it’s Aglovale’s hand that greets Siegfried’s dick, and it’s all the brunette can do not to thrust up into that gentle, cool grip. Aglovale notices the twitch of his hips anyway, and his fingertips grow colder for it. He carefully slips a metallic ring around the head and slides it down toward the base of Siegfried’s cock—Siegfried shudders and gives a long, breathless whine, his eyes clenched shut as dark spots dance under his eyelids. The ring is chilled from Aglovale’s touch; it’s almost more than he can take, and perhaps it would be, if not for the fact that the ring itself prevents him from release.

He gasps wildly for a moment as he adjusts, and Aglovale remains still in appraisal. The Lord of Frost chuckles softly; “Now  _ that  _ was a nice sound. Shall we see how much more you can take, as you say?” Siegfried’s palms clench; he can feel the pinpricks on his skin now more than ever, along with the faint chill of sweat on his back.

“Do your worst,” he doesn’t really understand why he says it, but the words simply come out amid his pants; he doesn’t say it, but at the tip of Siegfried’s tongue,  _ make me feel something _ lingers.

Naturally, Aglovale obliges him. He drags his index finger up the lower vein of Siegfried’s cock as he abandons it, instead settling one hand on the knight’s thigh and pressing his frozen blade to Siegfried’s hip. Aglovale is meticulous, but aggressive, leaving thin, half-numb red lines in elegant, asymmetrical patterns up from his hips to his neck; by the time the knife comes to rest once more against his exposed throat, Siegfried’s gasping and all but writhing at each flick of the blade. The pattern begins again from the top, with Aglovale’s hand now carefully placed around the veins of Siegfried’s neck as he works his way down to the man’s hips in small, arrhythmic cuts—it may be a trick of his eyes, but he thinks the ones he left there just a moment ago are already closing up.

Aglovale’s smooth palm curls around the knight’s desperately-hard cock, now slick with oil rather than gripping the handle of a knife, and it earns him another throaty moan—this one almost growl-like in its intensity. Siegfried’s teeth are gritted now, and it gives the impression of a beast baring its fangs—but Aglovale knows better than to think as much. “You’re coming along well enough,” he purrs, though his tone is more satisfied than the flippancy of his words. Siegfried’s palms clench and his thighs quiver; Aglovale doesn’t touch him for nearly long enough, though from the slick sounds that reach his ears, Siegfried can make a guess that the blond is touching  _ himself  _ instead.

The hand around Siegfried’s neck presses a little harder, restricting his breath but not precisely choking him. “You may touch yourself,” Aglovale grants breathily, “so long as you don’t consider removing that ring. You aren’t allowed to come until I allow it.” Once again, it proves an easy order to follow; Siegfried palms at himself gracelessly, his attention far more caught by the hand around his neck.

For a moment, Aglovale’s grip tightens, and Siegfried squirms as his breathing grows shallow—but before it can truly become a problem, that grip loosens once more and lets him heave in a few breaths before the cycle starts anew. Pain and pleasure in equal parts, enough to stifle the maddeningly loud noise of Siegfried’s constant inner monologue—he accepts it graciously, much as his body strains under the weight of sensation, desperate for release.

It’s while his pulse is pounding at his ears and Aglovale’s hand is clasped tight around his throat that Siegfried hears him groan in a telltale way—his climax heralds the end of this too-pleasant too-much kind of torment, and Siegfried nearly whimpers at the realization. Aglovale takes half a moment to catch his breath before his fingertips meet the metal ring around Siegfried’s desperately aching cock—his fingers swirl around it to slicken it up, but in the process he chills the metal one last time and Siegfried keens ungracefully for it.

“Aglovale,  _ please _ —!” he cries sharply; it’s only  _ that  _ that hits his nerves so hard that Siegfried is brought to beg. Aglovale gives a self-satisfied purr, and his hand slides up to undo the blindfold that’s remained too long over golden eyes.

“Come, then,” he utters lowly as the blindfold falls; in the same moment, he slips the ring off, and the timing is just perfect to let him watch Siegfried fall apart without obstruction. Siegfried nearly sobs at the weight of it, his nails digging at his abdomen as he throws his head back and his body shakes—it’s intense, perhaps moreso than anything he’s felt except the things that should’ve killed him.

Once it passes he slumps down into the plush seat, gasping desperately; Aglovale catches his arms with surprising gentleness. His red eyes still watch Siegfried carefully, but now with something softer than his icy appraisals from before; he lets the man catch his breath without saying anything.

“Are you with me, Siegfried?” There it is again: his name, an anchor. His eyes flutter open; the expression Aglovale wears is cool as ever, but Siegfried can feel the hint of worry within it.

“Mm,” it’s not much of a response, but it’s what Siegfried can manage. “I’m fine. Good, even.” The explanation is a little slurred, but Siegfried is honest as ever—as much as he feels like his limbs are made of stone, the lingering high is undeniable.

Aglovale hums as if unsure; he takes Siegfried’s hand in his own and stares down at it, runs his thumb across the top. The moment is oddly tender, but then again, he thinks Aglovale and Percival both are a lot like Josef: stern and confident on the outside, but good-hearted somewhere beneath that.

(And maybe that exact comparison is why he can trust Aglovale so easily, despite everything.)

“...The cuts have already healed,” Aglovale points out, jarring Siegfried from his hazy reverie as a fingertip, now nearly room-temperature, traces a line of half-dry blood along Siegfried’s rib. “That blood of yours is terribly convenient. Still, you’re a mess; perhaps I should assist you in getting yourself sorted.”

That weird way that he shows he cares, that he doesn’t mind Siegfried’s little idiosyncrasies (or the loss of humanity implicit within his body)—Siegfried understands it enough that he can only laugh and nod along, and maybe just this once, with no real option given to the contrary, he can resign himself to someone else taking care of him for a moment.

**Author's Note:**

> I SWEAR I WON'T ONLY WRITE GBF FOR KINKTOBER BUT GBF JUST GIVES ME SO MANY IDEAS FOR PORN
> 
> ALSO WHY IN THE FUCK IS THIS OVER 3K WORDS


End file.
